Casey at the Bat ~ Ernest Thayer

The Outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they’d a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

***

An apropos PSOetry entry, in light of the Rockies’ World Series debacle. Miss Angela is sad, but thinks her boys are still brilliantly beautiful. And just might show up in person for next season’s home games. I’ll be the girl with the whip. (wink)

Phenomenal Woman ~Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I’m not cute or built to suit a model’s fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I’m telling lies.
I say
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It’s the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say
It’s in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It’s in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That’s me.

***

Dedicated to my girl buddies here on the web. Keep on rocking in the free world.

xo, Angela

The History of One Tough Mother Fucker
Charles Buchowski

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said, ‘not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…’

I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough

one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.

‘You can make it, ‘ I said to him.

he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.

you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…

and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, run over, de-tailed cat and I say, ‘look, look
at this! ‘

but they don’t understand, they say something like, ‘you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine? ‘

‘No, ‘ I hold the cat up, ‘by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this! ‘

I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…

it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.

he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

***

Courtesy of Pervert Savant, who still hasn’t bought a computer (but still calls). He, like me, is a Buchowski fan. In fact, with a little fluffing and exposure to the finer things in life, Pervert Savant is turning out okay. I just wish he’d break down (MEN!) and buy the damn PC.

xo, Angela

so you want to be a writer? ~ Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

***

You may recall that it was a poem by Mr. Bukowski which inspired me to create the PSOetry category for this blog. Not easy to figure out why, is it? He is frickin’ awesome. And did you know that the screenplay for the movie, Barfly, was written by Bukowski and he based Mickey O’Rourke’s character on himself? Oh, yeah, baby. The world is, indeed, a fun place.

xo, Angela

Courage

~Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

***

I was on a call last night when the conversation took an unexpected turn and where it all ended up was in the discussion of poetry. I was reminded of this, my most favorite poem by most favorite poet. This is the first and, so far, the only poem that has actually made me cry.

It’s about time I included it in our ever growing collection. I hope it moves you as it moved me.

xo, Angela

Most of us probably can recall being spoon fed Buffalo Bill’s Defunct as an introduction to poetry (poetry? yuk!) in grade school. The writer of that poem went by the literary sobriquet of e.e. cummings. His name was actually Edward Estlin Cummings and I’ve always loved his poetry…every single bit of it.

It is easy on the brain and melts in your mouth. With every bit of inspired doggerel and each blithe vowel-chime e.e. cummings has taught me the miracle of words: that they are both everything and nothing. How could that not appeal to a Catholic school girl who believed in Three-Gods-in-One?

And now, three poems….

the boys i mean are not refined

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever’s on their mind
they do whatever’s in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

***

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me quite so new

***

it may not always be so: and i say

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another’s, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be-
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying ,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands

***

If you really like e.e. cumming’s stuff–and how could you not?–I suggest buying a book or two because you need to actually see his poetry to truly appreciate it. His writing style was unconventionally brilliant in that he often broke rules and misspelled words or used atypical typography to create a kind of “visual” poetry which complemented the rhyme and/or theme of the verse. A very good example of this would be a leaf falls on loneliness.

He is just so fucking awesome!

xo, Angela

There’s something in the air, I guess. Or the water. Or maybe it lurks in the hearts and minds of secret kinksters everywhere? I obviously read a lot more into some of this stuff than others do. But, hey! Look what I do for a living. Can you blame me? Can you, can you, can you?

Without further delay ‘cuz I know you’re dying to see what I came up with for this. Three cuckold poems. Kinda-sorta:

Betrayal
Angela Hickman

his mouth caught her by surprise
but she kissed him back. not kissing him
really, but the man she loved, through him.

and she thought of how horrible she was,
to kiss another, while her love was away.
but love is the loneliest feeling in the world,
so she couldn’t judge herself, or the feeling
of his hands on her skin, long after he had gone.

***

Wan Chu’s Wife in Bed
Richard Jones

Wan Chu, my adoring husband,
has returned from another trip
selling trinkets in the provinces.
He pulls off his lavender shirt
as I lie naked in our bed,
waiting for him. He tells me
I am the only woman he’ll ever love.
He may wander from one side of China
to the other, but his heart
will always stay with me.
His face glows in the lamplight
with the sincerity of a boy
when I lower the satin sheet
to let him see my breasts.
Outside, it begins to rain
on the cherry trees
he planted with our son,
and when he enters me with a sigh,
the storm begins in earnest,
shaking our little house.
Afterwards, I stroke his back
until he falls asleep.
I’d love to stay awake all night
listening to the rain,
but I should sleep, too.
Tomorrow Wan Chu will be
a hundred miles away
and I will be awake all night
in the arms of Wang Chen,
the tailor from Ming Pao,
the tiny village down the river

***

The Moon Versus Us Ever Sleeping Together Again
Richard Brautigan

I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you. Gee, I’m sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.

Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
her.

***

When I went looking for more info to hook you up with, I really couldn’t find much of anything on Ms. Hickman or Mr. Jones. And I am pretty sure many of you are already familiar with Richard Brautigan (Thanks Mr. M. for the book you sent me…you know which one!), and are perfectly capable of copying and pasting, or typing, his name into a search engine if you’re in the mood.

And I am off to bed.

xo, Angela

Nancy Drew
Ron Koertge

Merely pretty, she made up for it with vim.
And she got to say things like, “But, gosh,
what if these plans should fall into the wrong
hands?” and it was pretty clear she didn’t mean
plans for a party or a trip to the museum, but
something involving espionage and a Nazi or two.

In fact, the handsome exchange student turns
out to be a Fascist sympathizer. When he snatches
Nancy along with some blueprints, she knows he
has something more sinister in mind than kissing
her with his mouth open

Locked in the pantry of an abandoned farm house,
Nancy makes a radio out of a shoelace and a muffin.
Pretty soon the police show up, and everything’s
hunky dory.

Nancy accepts their thanks, but she’s subdued.
It’s not like her to fall for a cad. Even as she plans
a short vacation to sort our her emotions she knows
there will be a suspicious waiter, a woman in a green
off the shoulder dress, and her very jittery husband.

Very well. But no more handsome boys like the last one:
the part in his hair that was sheer propulsion, that way
he had of lifting his eyes to hers over the custard,
those feelings that made her not want to be brave
confident and daring, polite, sensitive and caring.

***

You may recall that Mr. Koertge was featured here once before with his poem, Kryptonite, one of my all-time favorite poems. I think he is one very cool, poet; don’t you?

• About the poet
• Other poems
• An interview

xo, Angela

1. A sweet example…

2. A sweet morsel…

In 1956 Sylvia Plath was studying in Europe on a Fulbright Scholarship when she went to a publication party for a literary magazine. It was there that she met the poet Ted Hughes, whose poetry she admired. When he introduced himself, Plath quoted one of his poems to him, and he guided her to a side room of the bar. She later wrote in her journal, “He kissed me bang smash on the mouth and ripped my hair band off … and my favorite silver earrings … I bit him long and hard on the cheek and when we came out of the room, blood was running down his face.” They got married four months later. (heard on NPR)

3. A sweet memory…

Good News/Bad News

4. A sweet poem…

Valentine ~ John Fuller

The things about you I appreciate
May seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power
And see your eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower
Or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like successfully to guess your weight
And win you at a fete.
I’d like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders
Marked Confidential).
I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath)
In rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work,
On hinges.
I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount
And get some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup.
I like your legs when you unwind them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without recap,
Where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
And have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.
I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
And cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide
Into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride
Of Frankenstein
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
Of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs. Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
And see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russse.
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.
I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
And mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference
And hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book,
your future tense.

Spring is right around the corner. I swear it.

Kinda-sorta? Maybe? Could be?

I know most of you have been experiencing a rather mild winter (an AOL poll told me so) and may not be as desperate (as say me…for example) to see spring hurrying its little tulip-covered ass onto the gray and gloomy horizon. And I know for a fact that at least one of you –can you believe it, Zen readers?– is skiing even as I type this.

For others of us (say me…for example) it’s been seven rounds of snow in seven weeks with record low temps thrown in for good measure now and then. Just to keep things interesting, I guess.

As for myself: having ventured out into the big white world only sporadically and at the sweet mercy of blessed friends and discreetly reluctant relatives (Rear wheel drive convertible: Can we say TRADE IN?), I am most definitely looking forward to getting my Spring Freak On.

Bring it on, baby! Oh, baby, baby, baby! And I’m not the only one, I will have you know!

Spring Fever is sweeping the Net:

Consider Oh Luscious One who not only redecorated her usual hangout, but surprised us with a totally new crib, catering to sissies and panty-boys, The Pink Panty Cafe.

Then we have Supervert, snazzing up the veneer and window treatments over at PervScan. Seems a few of the regulars haven’t been adjusting well. Which shows just how much of an icon this official Zen Savant has become: His readers think they own him and should be in charge of his floor plans, flower arrangements and wall art.

And while we are speaking of Savants, Submissive Savant, Richard, being his always industrious and imaginative self has a new creation for this season’s runway, yet another upscale website/blogsite, FemDom Chastity. The name speaks for itself: you know if you should be getting your submissive little tush over there.

And if all of the above isn’t enough proof that spring is springing like a mofu, then just check this out, why dontcha? Pervert Q. Savant has submitted Lingerie on the Razor-Wire 4 (Keep your panties or boxers or chastity device on…I’ll be publishing it soon…and you can read the first three parts here). And that’s not all we’re hearing from Pervert Q. Seems he was so inspired by my Parochial Potpourri that he wrote the following:

Public School Girls and Catholic School Girls - A Sort of Poem

Funny thing.
When I was a Catholic boy I was afraid to even say anything
To the Catholic schoolgirls
That sat on the other side
of our divided classrooms.

I thought they all bought into the venial sins and mortal sins
That the nuns told us about.
I thought they were kind of pure,
Free from the “bad thoughts” that I harbored
About what was beneath their white blouses
And plaid skirts.

I figured they weren’t like me
– someone who didn’t have money
For summer camp,
For skating,
And who didn’t know how to dance.

Someone that didn’t know what to say to them.

The public school girls were the ones that seemed more like me
– that wore makeup,
That didn’t wear uniforms.
That smoked in the back of the city bus
That took me to a typing class at the local public high school. They were the “bad girls” the nuns warned us about.

And being Catholic, I didn’t know what to say to them either.

So bring on the sun, the meltdown, the sunglasses, the god-blessed air conditioning.

Let’s get our Spring Freak On!

xo, Angela